A Troublesome Boy by Paul Vasey

— The Pear this morning — gave him a rap on the ass with his yardstick.
    â€œRise and shine, Mr. Cooper.” Cooper mumbled something. Bartlett grabbed the blanket that Cooper had hauled over his head and ripped it right off the bed. “Up, Mr. Cooper. Now!”
    Fifteen minutes later, The Pear was marching us to a classroom just down the hall from the chapel.
    â€œEnjoy your reflections,” he said. “Brother Joseph will be along presently. And I’d better not hear a sound out of this room.” He shut the door.
    Klemski’s cousin had come through. Thanks to a letter from him threatening legal action, Klemski didn’t have to go to religion class anymore, and the rest of the pagans got sprung from chapel.
    â€œThanks, Klemski. This is just great.” This was Campbell, slouching in his desk, chewing a toothpick. “Now we get to sit here and stare at the blackboard for half an hour. At least in chapel we could listen to all that weird stuff they chant.”
    â€œThat’s exactly the point,” said Klemski. “They want you to start to like all that weird shit. And as soon as you start asking questions about it, wham.” He slammed his palm against the desk. “They spring the trap.”
    â€œWhat trap?”
    â€œThe conversion trap, you moron. Ask a couple of questions, then it’s, ‘Well, Mr. Campbell, if you’d care to learn more, we’d be happy to instruct you.’ Next thing you know you’ll be carrying beads around and crossing yourself and praying to plaster statues.”
    â€œHey, Klemski.” This was Hatfield at the back of the room.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIf your cousin can spring us out of chapel, how come he can’t spring you out of this hellhole?”
    â€œMy mother told him to leave me right where I was. Said maybe the priests could work a miracle. Get rid of my shitty attitude.”
    â€œDoesn’t seem to be working so far.”
    Cooper was at the back of the room working on his nails. He’d been doing it for a couple of weeks. Not nibbling. Biting and chewing like a madman. His nails were right down to the quick and he was still going at them. Now he was working on the skin around the edges. His fingers were a mess — red, raw and bleeding.
    â€œJeezus, Cooper, what are you doing?”
    He gave me a spacey look. “Huh?”
    â€œYour fingers.”
    He looked down at them, turned his hands over and curled his fingers so they were all in a row. Inspected them. Found one to his liking and began working on it, gnawing at the skin at the top of the nail.
    I slid into the desk beside his. He made like he hadn’t noticed, but then a minute or so later he looked at me.
    â€œWhat’s the worst thing you ever did?”
    â€œJeezus, Cooper, where do you get these questions? Give me a minute.”
    â€œIf you take more than a minute, you’re bullshitting me. The worst ones are right at the front of your brain. Can’t ever forget them.” Gave me the old Cooper grin. Went back to nibbling one of his fingers. “Go on,” he said, “I promise not to be shocked.”
    â€œOne time, I beat the shit out of a kid who was half my size.”
    â€œNot bad,” said Cooper. “What else?”
    â€œI dunno.”
    â€œYes, you do.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œYou had to do something worse than that.”
    â€œAll right, smartass. What’s the worst thing you ever did?”
    â€œI cursed God,” said Cooper.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œFor giving me such a shitty life.” That grin again.
    â€œYou get hit by a bolt of lightning, or what?”
    â€œNope. But the shit’s been raining down on me ever since.” He gave a little shrug. Then he put his head down on his arms and made like he was having a nap.
    For the next half hour we just killed time. Hatfield tried another of his lame jokes.
    â€œWhat do you call a